


Melting Ice

by Lylanne (orphan_account)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Just two girls talking in a room about men who ain't shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 21:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19731988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Lylanne
Summary: Sansa is called to Daenerys Targaryen's room at Winterfell. Tension, not really romance.Still a fun one shot





	Melting Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Light mention of trauma. Should be safe, but please trust and know your triggers.
> 
> This is a gift fic to @shy-lil-bean on Tumblr, go check them out!

**Melting Ice**

Sansa had meant to knock lightly, giving only a nod to her presence. Instead, she made her way through an icy corridor and came upon two leering Dothraki, hands tight upon sickles that could cut her head clean off, if so provoked. Her arms began to shake, and when she struck her fist upon the door, a loud thump answered her action.

A young woman, Missandei, if her memory served, opened the door.

"It is Lady Stark, my Queen," she said, never breaking eye contact with Sansa.

"Let her in." Daenerys Targarayen answered, her voice measured and sweet.

Missandei lowered her head and opened the door. She acted like a handmaid, but Sansa was sure she'd seen the girl in an advisory chair at supper. Regardless, she entered, trying to paint a kind facade on her face.

The room itself was remarkably warm given the drafty corridor outside. Two fires burned in seperate hearths, and countless candles were perched around the room, adding more warmth.

An uncomfortable heat grew from beneath her furs, and Sansa longed for the fresh cold of the halls. Still, when Daenerys gestured to a chair beside the fire, Sansa sat gracefully, flashing her court smile.

"Lady Stark." Daenerys addressed, a similar grin lighting her own face.

"Your Grace," Sansa said, every fiber of her begging resistance.

Daenerys sat in a wooden chair, outfitted with furs and pillows that made a rather comfy throne beside the largest of the two hearths. Sansa sat directly beside, in sligtly less cushioned seat. Silence chasmed between them, and at last Daenerys realized Sansa would not guide their curtisies.

"Missandei," Daenerys spoke, her words thickened with a Valyerian accent, "You may leave." 

Sansa could not distinguish her words, for Daenerys spoke an uncommon tounge, but the meaning was apparent when Missandei's small frame left the room, closing the door swiftly behind.

And now they were alone.

"I hope my blood-riders gave you no trouble."

Certain she was reffereing to the Dothraki outside, Sansa shook her head, "Not at all. They are well adjusted."

"Yes," Daenerys mused, eyes searching for something in Sansa's austere. She sighed, releasing her gaze, "I apologize to call you so late. Only, I had hoped to speak to you, absent of pleasantries."

It was Sansa's turn to search, and from what she gathered, Daenarys spoke with sincerity.

"It would be nice, I imagine," Daenerys said, "To speak as if only we two could hear."

Sansa nodded, a strange craving for this free speach, a new desire to have it.

"Your Grace. It is no trouble of mine to sit with you, but I must ask, is this all you have called me for? A 'talk'?"

Daenerys smiled again, sad and knowing, "I am afraid so. Have I wasted your time?"

Sansa looked to her again, her throat begging to speak all it could. She restrained herself, "That is yet to be seen."

A small table sat between them, a flagon of red wine, unopened, caught the fire's light upon it's glass torso. Sansa poured wine into each cup, offering a glass to Daenerys, who took it happily.

Sansa sipped quickly, hoping her wall might fade with the intake of wine. Daenarys measured her sips, but soon drained her cup as well. Sansa poured two more and waited.

"You're lucky," Daenerys said, her stare fixed on the growing flames, her violet eyes appearing blood red at Sansa's angle, "For Jon. He is a kind man, I imagine a kind brother."

Sansa did not want to talk about Jon, she still harboured a resentment at what he'd done, but she could not deny the truth in Daenerys' words.

"He is," Sansa said at last, "A kind brother. He fought for our home, for me."

"The battle against Ramsey Bolton?" She asked innocently, but Sansa's demeanor darkened almost instantly.

"Yes. The Battle of the Bastards, some call it."

"You were married to him, were you not? Lord Bolton?"

Sansa knew it came from ignorance, but her wish to leave the room and escort Daenerys from her home pulled at her. If this was free speach, perhaps she did not want it after all. But all the same, she did not wish to erase her survival.

"Yes." Sansa nearly whispered, her mind pushing away the memories that scathed her.

"I'm sorry," Daenaerys said. Perhaps she was not as dim as Sansa had momentarily assumed. Daenerys rested a warm hand upon Sansa's rested one. "I did not mean to offend. I know the confines of an arranged marriage."

Sansa did not doubt her, "Forgive me your grace, I am sure you share the stories, as most noble women do, but-," She could not finish, she refused to lose herself.

"But?" Daenerys pushed. Gods, Sansa wished she would not push further. Daenerys' violet eyes pierced at Sansa, pity and curiosty staining their charm.

"But," Sansa's voice was hoarse. She drank more wine, hoping to numb everything, "Ramsey was a monster unlike even my first suitor."

An understanding fostered itself then.

"What became of him?" Daenerys asked, her hand tightening around Sansa's. A smile crept incredulous upon Sansa's lips,

"I fed him. To his dogs." That information had only previously belonged to Jon, Arya, and Bran. She felt almost absurd, admitting it to the Dragon Queen. She expected disgust, but Daenarys did not loosen her grip, nor did she push back in revolt.

_She smiled_.

"Good," she said, conspiracy dancing in her gaze. 

She was alluring, and Sansa could blame it on the wine, but the sincerity in Daenerys' eyes was the far more apparent culprit.

"Does that not scare you?" Sansa asked, desperate to understand the non-chalant reaction of the woman beside her.

"It is grusome," she replied, "But. I once encased a man in metled Gold for the wrongs he'd done me."

Sansa was at once intrigued, she leaned even closer, 

"Whom?"

"My brother, Viserys."

If Daenerys had anticipated shock, she was sorely dissapointed. Sansa only exhaled, interest slathered across her expression.

"Does that not scare you?" Daenerys echoed, Sansa could hear the edge in her voice.

Sansa stared now to the fire, it had gone down somewhat, the flames licking the air with a hunger she found kindred.

"No," she said at last, her voice smooth and drenched in wine, "I do not scare at the perils of men."

"Neither do I." There was a promise in her words, and perhaps that should've frightened Sansa. Once, it might have. But now, she found herself curious at the promise, almost tempted to dare it, to see how far it might go.

"Valar Morghulis," Danaerys whispered, more to herself than Sansa.

"All men must die?" Sansa questioned, certain the words had a familiarity to her.

"But we are not men," Daenerys said, her hand still holding strong to Sansa's.


End file.
